mercilessly as a searchlight. Where she had been stout thirteen
years before, she was now frankly fat. Four keen eyes noted the
soft, cushiony double chin, the heavy breasts, ample stomach,
spreading hips, and thick shoulders, rounded from many years of
bending over her kitchen table. Kansas wind, Kansas well-water
and Kansas sun had played their usual havoc, giving her skin the
dull sand color so common in the Sunflower State. She had come
from her cooking and she was hot, beads of sweat trickling from
the deep folds of her neck. Withal, there was something so
comfortable and motherly about her, the kind, wise eyes behind
the gold-rimmed glasses were so misty with welcome and unspoken
thoughts of the dear mother Rose had lost, that the girl went out
to her sincerely even as she marvelled that the same years on the
same farm which had given one person added polish and had made
him even more good looking than ever, could have changed another
so completely and turned her into such a toil-scarred, frumpy,
oldish woman. Why, when she had been talking with Uncle Martin he
had seemed no older than herself--well, not quite that, of
course, but she had just forgotten about his age
altogether--until she saw Aunt Rose. No wonder whenever he spoke
of his wife every intonation told how little he loved her. How
could he care any more--that way?

Rose's first look of astonishment and her darting glance in his
own direction were not lost on Martin. With an imperceptible
smile, he accepted the unintended compliment, but he felt a pang
when he noticed that to her Aunt went the same affectionate,
impetuous embrace that she had given to him at the station.

"You're losing your head," he told himself sternly, driving into